Prairie birds — including Illinois' dapper bobolink — in steep decline, study says
By no means depleted, the plucky visitor goes on to dazzle the females of his species with a high-energy courtship display in which he soars over wildflower-studded fields, flapping his wings rapidly and singing a bright, burbling tune.
In the vast nature preserves surrounding the city, he is joined by the crafty eastern meadowlark, the elusive Henslow's sparrow, the stubby grasshopper sparrow, the tiny sedge wren and the gold-splashed dickcissel.
'If you go to a grassland in the Chicago area — if it's big enough — you're going to see those birds,' said Chicago Bird Alliance President Judy Pollock. 'The whole area used to look like that so it's kind of like going back in time.'
But if iconic grassland birds still appear to flourish here, the story is very different when the camera pans out across the Midwest and the Great Plains, according to the latest State of the Birds Report by scientists at U.S. bird conservation groups.
The nation's grassland birds, spread across 320 million acres in 14 states, have declined 43% since 1970, more than any other category, and are 'in crisis,' according to the report, released in March.
Overall, the study found that about a third of American bird species are of high or moderate conservation concern.
Even duck populations — previously a bright spot, with strong increases since 1970 — have trended downward in recent years, the report said.
'The bird conservation community and scientists sounded the alarm in 2019 about these declines,' said Amanda Rodewald, a professor and senior director at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology's Center for Avian Population Studies.
'We're a little over five years out and we're seeing they're becoming steeper — some of these trends. We know this is happening. We're now showing we have tools and data sets (that can help) managers and decision-makers to know specifically where they need to direct some conservation. What we need is the will to act.'
The study encourages practices such as coastal restoration, conservation ranching and seabird translocation, or transporting birds to locations where they are likely to thrive.
For grassland birds, which are losing 1 million to 2 million acres of habitat annually in the Great Plains, the study highlights solutions such as improved grazing practices for cattle and sheep, invasive plant removal, investment in grassland conservation and converting low-quality cropland to grassland.
The landmark 2019 study, which found that the North American bird population had dropped by nearly 3 billion since 1970, focused on the nation as a whole, while the new study focuses on birds that require certain specific habitats, such as forests and coastlines.
Those birds are better indicators of change in a particular habitat because they don't just dip in and out of it — they depend on it for survival.
In the case of grassland birds, including those in Illinois, the news isn't good. The study says birds that need grassland habitat are in crisis.
One measure the study looked at was 'tipping point' species status, which signals that a bird has lost more than 50% of its population within the past 50 years.
Shorebirds had the most tipping point species, with 19. Grassland birds had eight tipping point species, including the plucky bobolink and another Chicago classic, the Henslow's sparrow.
The bobolink was listed as an 'orange-alert' tipping point species, second only to the 'red-alert' category. Orange-alert status is for birds showing 'long-term population losses and accelerated recent declines within the past decade.'
The Henslow's sparrow was listed as a 'yellow-alert' with 'long-term population losses but relatively stable recent trends' and 'continued conservation efforts needed to sustain recovery.'
A total of 9% of the breeding population of Henslow's sparrows and 5% of the breeding population of meadowlarks are in Illinois, according to Jim Giocomo, the American Bird Conservancy's central region director.
The study's findings are important in part, he said, because humans live in the same environment as birds.
'Birds are literally our canary in the coal mine,' he said. 'The bird needs the same stuff we do but reacts to changes in the environment faster.'
Water availability, air pollution, chemicals and the decline of insect populations all can affect birds.
The eastern meadowlark, a fairly common sight for grassland birders in the Chicago area, wasn't singled out for concern in the study. But the LeConte's sparrow, lark bunting and western meadowlark — all grassland birds — were among the species that experienced the largest declines in the Midwest and Great Plains.
The LeConte's sparrow migrates through Illinois, and some western meadowlarks summer here. Lark buntings are generally found farther west.
The Chicago-area birding community has been working to restore grassland habitat for at least 20 years, according to Pollock, and forest preserve districts in and around Chicago have made good progress.
The Forest Preserves of Cook County, for instance, has removed trees and connected pieces of land to create sprawling prairies for grassland birds, which nest on the ground.
'They need really large areas to hide their nests from predators,' Pollock said. 'One hundred acres is small for them. They really want 1,000, 2,000 acres.'
The big grassland preserves in the region include Bartel Grassland and Bobolink Meadow near Tinley Park, Orland Grassland near Orland Park, Busse Woods near Elk Grove Village and Paul Douglas Preserve in Hoffman Estates.
A 2022 study by the nonprofit Bird Conservation Network found that dozens of birds, including the Henslow's sparrow, are doing surprisingly well in Chicago — likely because of the region's many parks and nature preserves, which cover nearly 10% of land in the six-county area.
Of 104 key species tracked in the study, 56% had stable or increasing populations in the Chicago region, while only 37% were stable or increasing in other areas of the state.
At the time, only about 410,000 breeding Henslow's sparrows remained in the world, and the birds were declining nationally.
However, the conservation network study found the birds were up an average of 3.4% per year in the Chicago area.
The bobolink was a different story, with the study finding the local bobolink population was down 2.9% per year since 1999.
Among the possible explanations: A lot of restored grasslands in the area tend to be dominated by tall grasses, and bobolinks may prefer a mix of grasses and flowering plants, Bird Conservation Network President Eric Secker told the Tribune in 2022. It was also possible that an international decline in insects, which is increasingly of concern to scientists, may have been reducing the birds' food supply.
Lastly, the problem may not have been limited to this region — or even this country, he said. Bobolinks are poisoned by farmers in Central and South America, where the birds feed on crops.
Solutions to the grassland bird decline vary among regions, although all rely on increasing or improving habitat. In the Great Plains, Rodewald highlighted the work of the Bird Conservancy of the Rockies, which encourages voluntary conservation by farmers and ranchers.
'People rely on the land for their livelihoods, and so any approaches that we're using to preserve birds in those areas needs to be really grounded in voluntary conservation measures,' Rodewald said.
In Illinois, 'agricultural intensification,' in which farmers squeeze more production out of their land, is a major contributor to grassland bird decline, she said. Agricultural intensification means bigger farms, larger single-crop areas, less rest for the land, fewer hedgerows and more chemicals.
Among the potential solutions: The government can give farmers financial incentives to return land to a more natural state, as in the farm bill's conservation reserve program.
The farm bill is a comprehensive package of legislation that sets agriculture and food policy and is supposed to be updated every five years. The 2018 farm bill has been extended twice as Republicans and Democrats argue about what should be included.
Bobolink-conscious management of hay fields also can help in Illinois, Pollock said. The birds lay several sets of eggs in the course of a summer, and mowing can prove fatal to the young.
'They're crunching up lots of baby bobolinks, and other grassland birds,' Pollock said.
The solutions include mowing in May, which discourages nesting. That's a good approach when conditions are right, Pollock said, but sometimes it's too wet to mow.
Rodewald said data on birds has improved, thanks to the efforts of volunteers and advances such as the popular eBird app, which allows everyday birders to submit detailed reports on their sightings.
'It's really adding to our ability to detect and diagnose population changes — and that, fundamentally, allows us to respond to them in ways that are more proactive, more cost-efficient and more effective on the ground,' she said.
For example, scientists can use eBird data to determine where installing a solar array is least likely to affect a sensitive bird population, or where a conservation measure — say, adding more trees — can benefit humans as well as birds.
'Despite the bad news, I think that because we have more information than ever and knowledge is power, we do have reason to hope,' Rodewald said.
nschoenberg@chicagotribune.com
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Freeman Dyson, the visionary astrophysicist, drew a devastating distinction between the 'paper NASA,' largely a figment of memory and pop culture, and the 'real NASA,' the sclerotic organization that rose in its place. Those criticisms were both legitimate and somewhat unfair; in the shadow of crewed spaceflight, which garnered attention and prestige, NASA pursued advances in robotics and astrophysics, such as the Galileo mission to Jupiter. But without a human on board, those accomplishments lacked the romance of NASA's golden age. In the summer of 2001, Elon Musk sat in a Manhattan hotel room, fired up his laptop, and browsed He had just returned from a party on Long Island. On the ride home, he'd told a friend, 'I've always wanted to do something in space, but I don't think there's anything that an individual can do.' Musk was plenty rich and plenty bored. 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Space is a magnet for rich dilettantes and—more than a sports car or yacht—the ultimate expression of wealth and power. Because space travel is ingrained in our culture as the hardest human endeavor, demanding immense resources, it commands cultural respect. For Musk—who had been bullied by both his schoolmates and his father—space offered the possibility of seizing the world by the lapels and announcing his greatness. A classic revenge fantasy. Musk wasn't wrong about the diminished state of NASA. Remarking on the grim persistence of the space-shuttle program, Neil deGrasse Tyson said that NASA's flagship vessel 'boldly went where man had gone hundreds of times before'—135 times, to be precise. These missions were essential to the construction of the Hubble Space Telescope and the International Space Station, but never ventured beyond the familiar confines of low Earth orbit. Even as Russia was losing the Cold War, it was winning the final chapters of the space race, fielding a program that was better conceived and more active. Indeed, when Musk first pondered launching rockets, he went to Russia in hope of buying used ones; this entailed sitting through vodka-drenched meals with apparatchiks hoping to bilk him. In the end, he concluded that it was cheaper to make his own. In 2002, he founded SpaceX. Musk was a salesman, determined to make Washington turn its head—and sink cash into his start-up, housed in a suburban– Los Angeles warehouse, which was just beginning to cobble together its first rockets. In 2003, he trucked a seven-story rocket to D.C. and parked it outside the Air and Space Museum on the National Mall. Soon enough, the Air Force and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency gave him several million dollars to help grow SpaceX. In 2006, NASA awarded him $278 million for the first installment of a new program called Commercial Orbital Transportation Services. He received these grants even though SpaceX hadn't successfully launched a rocket. (Musk and the company did not respond to a request for comment for this story.) For years, NASA had leaned on the same old set of big contractors: Northrop Grumman, Rockwell, Boeing. These were stodgy firms, anchors in the military-industrial complex, codependent on the government, with their own bureaucracies. Their projects tended to swell in cost and underperform. NASA officials knew these organization's failings and were desperate to reverse them. The shuttle program was scheduled for imminent retirement, but what would replace it? There was still a space station floating in low Earth orbit, with astronauts awaiting resupply. At the dawn of the 21st century, disruption was the magic word, incanted by investors and fetishized in the media. 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In 2015, he created Starlink. His rockets would launch satellites into orbit to supply Earth with internet service, a far more lucrative business. Starlink turned SpaceX into a behemoth. Because SpaceX was constantly launching rockets—and not just for NASA—it kept gaining invaluable new data and insights, which allowed it to produce cheaper, better rockets. Because nothing is more exciting to an engineer than actually launching things, the company drained talent from its competition. Musk's goal wasn't to achieve the banal status of monopolist. 'The lens of getting to Mars has motivated every SpaceX decision,' Musk told Isaacson. When he created Starlink, he did so because it would supply him with the capital to build rockets powerful enough to carry humanity to Mars. Musk, who describes himself as a 'cultural Christian,' is not an especially religious person. But his imagination is fixed on the end of days—the possibility of an 'extinction event'—because his childhood experiences push his adult anxieties in the direction of the catastrophic. In South Africa, he came of age amid the decaying of the apartheid state, which had once promised to safeguard his racial caste. His family, like his society, was fracturing. When he was 8, his parents divorced. He now recalls his father as a monstrous figure. 'Almost every evil thing you could possibly think of, he has done,' Musk once told Rolling Stone. (Errol Musk told Rolling Stone that 'he has never intentionally threatened or hurt anyone,' and later said that his son's comments were about their political differences at the time.) Given this turbulence—and the paucity of reliable authority in his early life—it's hardly surprising that Musk would fear the worst. He found refuge from the world's harsh realities in the pages of sci-fi novels. But visions of apocalypse are the genre's elemental motif, and the fiction he devoured often magnified his dread. Musk sought out works that offered both cause for despair and a vision of transcendence. Those Asimov novels featured hyperrational heroes, many of them engineers, who saved humanity by building space colonies where civilization could begin anew. Musk borrowed his self-conception from these protagonists. From an early age, the colonization of Mars became Musk's idée fixe. At various points, he has described his companies as contributing to that overarching mission. Tesla's Cybertrucks are vehicles that could be adapted to traverse the Martian terrain; its solar panels, a potential energy source for a future colony. He has even reportedly claimed that his social-media platform, X, could serve as an experiment in decentralized governance—testing how a Martian outpost might use consensus as the basis for lawmaking, because he envisions a minimalist government on the red planet. At SpaceX, Musk's employees have begun sketching the contours of life on Mars. One team is designing housing and communal spaces; Musk has already named the first Martian city Terminus, after a planetary colony in Asimov's novels. Other teams are developing spacesuits tailored to the planet's harsh environment and exploring the feasibility of human reproduction there. (When The New York Times reported on these teams, Musk denied their existence.) No engineering challenge in human history rivals the audacity of making Mars a place humans can call home. Gwynne Shotwell, SpaceX's president and chief operating officer, calls it a 'fixer-upper' planet, a hilarious understatement. Mars's atmosphere is 95 percent carbon dioxide and laced with nitrogen, among other elements and a smattering of toxins. Temperatures can plunge to –225 degrees Fahrenheit. My colleague Ross Andersen once memorably described what would happen to a human body on Mars: 'If you were to stroll onto its surface without a spacesuit, your eyes and skin would peel away like sheets of burning paper, and your blood would turn to steam, killing you within 30 seconds.' Even with a suit, protection would be tenuous: Cosmic radiation would seep through, and Martian dust storms—filled with abrasive, electrically charged particles—could bypass seams and seals. These impossible conditions are compounded by Mars's distance from Earth. Launches are feasible only about once every 26 months, when the planets' orbits align to minimize travel time and fuel requirements. Even then, it takes roughly eight months for a spacecraft to reach Mars, making it exceedingly difficult to resupply a colony or rescue its inhabitants. When challenged about these mortal dangers, Musk is disarmingly relaxed, and has said that he himself would make the journey. 'People will probably die along the way, just as happened in the settling of the United States,' he told Isaacson. 'But it will be incredibly inspiring, and we must have inspiring things in the world.' To warm the planet, he proposes detonating nuclear bombs over Mars's poles, which he claims could induce a greenhouse effect—an idea he relishes, perhaps as a troll. SpaceX once sold T-shirts bearing the slogan Nuke Mars. According to a top scientist at the Russian space agency, Roscosmos, it would take more than 10,000 nuclear-tipped missiles to carry out Musk's plan. Even Wernher von Braun's fictional doppelgänger, Dr. Strangelove, might have winced at such breezy talk of thermonuclear explosions. President Kennedy was also willing to take absurd risks in pursuit of cosmic ambition, invoking the Cold War imperative to 'bear any burden.' But he did so to demonstrate national greatness. Musk is seeking to spend trillions—and risk human lives—to demonstrate his own. Because his reality emerges from fiction, Musk is untethered from any sense of earthly constraints. His sense of his own role in the plot emerges from his desire to leap into myth. Musk's fixation on Mars also functions as a kind of ancestor worship, echoing a family mythology of flight from decline. In 1950, his grandfather Joshua Haldeman left Canada for South Africa in search of a freer society—one he believed could withstand the collapse of Western civilization. Haldeman's doomsday rhetoric railed against Jewish bankers and 'hordes of Coloured people,' whom he claimed were being manipulated to destroy 'White Christian Civilization.' In the rise of apartheid, he saw not repression but redemption, a last stand for the values he held sacred. Read: Elon Musk's anti-Semitic, apartheid-loving grandfather Like his grandfather, Musk is obsessed with staving off civilizational collapse. He does not voice his fears in openly racist terms—instead framing them in the language of freedom and survival—but he is fixated on the notion of a gene pool with diminishing intelligence. 'If each successive generation of smart people has fewer kids, that's probably bad,' he told the biographer Ashlee Vance. His rhetoric is provocative, but slippery enough to avoid outright extremism. Over years of statements, social-media posts, and interviews, however, a pattern has emerged: Musk sees Mars not merely as a lifeboat but as a laboratory—an opportunity to reengineer humanity. On a new planet, far from Earth's chaos and constraint, he imagines a society remade in his own image. This belief is rooted in a kind of technological social Darwinism, the idea that evolution can be steered, or even upgraded, by engineering. It's how he describes an animating premise of Neuralink, the company he co-founded that is developing brain-computer interfaces that aim to merge human cognition with machines and effectively create a species of cyborgs. The same spirit infuses Musk's obsession with procreation, and he's doing his part. He now has at least 14 children, by The Wall Street Journal 's count, with four biological mothers. In his worldview, apocalypse and salvation converge: Either we become a race of engineered brilliance, or we vanish, and Mars is the greatest opportunity for remaking humanity. In a sense, it follows a classic pattern of migration. The bold depart in search of opportunity, while those who remain face extinction. Survival becomes a test of worth. Those who stay behind will, by their inaction, mark themselves as unfit for the future. Once settlers arrive on Mars, Musk has suggested that life forms—possibly including humans—might be bioengineered to survive the planet's harsh environment. In one interview, he noted that humanity has long shaped organisms 'by sort of selective breeding.' Humans, he intimated, could be bred like cows. He's reportedly prepared to supply his own genetic material to the effort. Sources told the Times that Musk has offered to donate his sperm to help seed a Martian colony (which Musk later denied). Using a concept borrowed from Asimov's fiction, Musk says that Martian colonists will serve as 'the light of consciousness.' They are humanity's last hope, the counterweight to a dark age that could follow Earth's destruction. But what's dark is his vision of abandoning Earth and investing the species' faith in a self-selected elite, one that mirrors Musk's own values, and perhaps even his traits. The idea is megalomaniacal, and is the antithesis of the old NASA ideal: for all mankind. In the earliest hours of a spring morning, I drove across a Florida causeway, through a nature reserve filled with alligators and wild boars, to hallowed ground: Launch Complex 39A, once a stage for NASA's majesty. More than half a century ago, Apollo 11 began its ascent to the moon here. During the space race, it was perhaps the most exciting place on the planet, poised between glory and disaster: 11 Apollo missions lifted off from here, followed by 82 space-shuttle launches. NASA framed 39A for the television era: an enormous American flag fluttering at one end of the horizon, a giant digital countdown clock at the other. Even now, a weathered CBS News sign hangs on a small cinder-block building with a perfect view of the site—the same spot where Walter Cronkite once narrated liftoffs in his authoritative baritone. By 2013, the launchpad had become an expensive, unused relic, but because of its presence on the National Register of Historic Places, it couldn't be torn down. Musk coveted the site, as did his longtime competitor, Jeff Bezos. But at the time, Bezos didn't have a rocket capable of flying from 39A. SpaceX won the rights to lease the launchpad for the next 20 years. The old theater of American dreams now belonged to Musk. I arrived at 39A to watch the launch of Falcon 9—SpaceX's workhorse rocket, the height of a 20-story building—which would help deliver cargo to the International Space Station, circling in low Earth orbit. There's no alternative to the Falcon 9, and there's no rival to SpaceX. For the time being, the company is the only domestic entity, public or private, with the capacity to deliver crew and cargo to the space station. Lyndon Johnson once said that 'control of space means control of the world.' In his day, space was a way to project national strength to a global audience through displays of technical superiority. Today, it has become a domain of warfare, alongside land, sea, and air. Modern combat operations rely on space-based systems that guide munitions, coordinate communications, and spy on adversaries. Without dominance in orbit, terrestrial forces would be deaf, blind, and largely immobile. In 2019, then, the Pentagon created the Space Force as the sixth branch of the military. If space is power, then Musk's role is badly understated. It's no longer accurate to call him merely the world's richest earthling. The United States is now dependent on him in its quest to command space. Through its Starshield division, SpaceX provides space-based communication for the U.S. armed forces; its satellites can reportedly track hypersonic and ballistic missiles and extend the government's surveillance reach to nearly every corner of the globe. In April, the Space Force awarded SpaceX a majority of its contracts for a batch of national-security missions over the coming years. Some of this work involves agencies such as the National Reconnaissance Office, placing it within the penumbra of classification. The true extent of the government's reliance on SpaceX is largely obscured, rarely scrutinized, and only loosely regulated. Yet the dependency is undeniable. If Musk were to withhold support—out of principle, pique, or profit motive—the government could find itself stranded. None of SpaceX's competitors yet possesses the capability to replace it. (A Space Force spokesperson said that it relies on 'a number of industry partners,' including SpaceX, and continues to seek 'to broaden the diversity of potential vendors,' adding that the Department of Defense 'exercises rigorous oversight' of its contracts. The spokesperson also denied claims that SpaceX's satellites track missiles.) The war in Ukraine has offered a chilling glimpse of the risks posed by Musk's role as interstellar gatekeeper. In the early days of the invasion, SpaceX rushed to supply Ukraine with Starlink terminals, helping to replace communications systems debilitated by Russian cyberattacks and advancing troops. It was a noble gesture and a strategic boon. Ukrainian forces, empowered by the new technology, coordinated scrappy, asymmetrical tactics that blunted Russian advances. But Musk's commitment soon wavered. In September 2022, SpaceX denied a Ukrainian request to extend Starlink coverage to Crimea, effectively blocking a planned strike on Russian naval forces in Sevastopol. (Starting that fall, Musk began speaking with Vladimir Putin at length, according to the Journal, troubling the U.S. intelligence community.) In the months that followed, the company imposed new geographic limits on Starlink's use, restricting its application in areas where Ukraine might otherwise target Russia's vulnerabilities. Musk framed the move as an act of prudent restraint that would help avert World War III. But it also exposed an unsettling reality: Ukraine's battlefield operations were subject to the discretion of a single person. 'My Starlink system is the backbone of the Ukrainian army,' he posted on X. 'Their entire front line would collapse if I turned it off.' Musk's preeminence marks a profound shift in the history of American political economy. During the Cold War, the military-industrial complex was driven by corporations that operated as handmaidens to the state. They had outsize influence, but remained largely bureaucratic, gray-flannel institutions—cogs in a sprawling, profitable machine. Musk is different. Years of hagiographic media coverage and his immense social-media reach birthed legions of fanboys and nurtured a cult of personality. His achievements command awe. In the damp Florida night, I stood on a sandbank and trained my eyes on Launch Complex 39A as the countdown clock ticked toward zero. And then, without the benefit of Cronkite's narration, I watched the Falcon 9 violently part the darkness, with a payload bound for the space station. A few minutes later, a light appeared in the sky: The reusable rocket was returning home. Majestic and imperious, it cast a warm glow over the palm trees. For a moment this spring, Musk's grand ambitions seemed like they might buckle. In Washington, it had long been assumed that Musk and Trump would turn on each other. When it finally happened, the spark, fittingly, was NASA. Musk had pushed to install his friend Jared Isaacman as head of the agency—a move that stank of cronyism. In 2021, Isaacman, a tech entrepreneur, had paid SpaceX millions to chase a childhood dream of flying to space. That deal soon led to a friendship, and eventually, his company owning a stake in SpaceX itself. Read: MAGA goes to Mars When Trump soured on Musk, he struck where it hurt most. Annoyed after learning of Isaacman's past donations to Democratic campaigns, the president withdrew the nomination on May 31. Musk received the move as one in a string of betrayals and erupted online, warning that the Jeffrey Epstein files would implicate Trump and that the president's spending bill was a 'disgusting abomination.' The clash soon shifted to space. Musk threatened to decommission the spacecraft resupplying the International Space Station; Trump blustered that he would order a review of SpaceX's government contracts. Yet for all the rancor, there is no sign that SpaceX has actually suffered. Trump and Musk have dismembered the federal bureaucracy, but its old tendencies are still prevailing; the apparatus clings to the vendors that have delivered results. Even as Trump raged, Washington's dependence on Musk was growing. In June, a Space Force commander said that SpaceX will play a crucial part in the MILNET program, a new constellation of 480-plus satellites. Reportedly, the Pentagon will pay for it; the intelligence community will oversee it; Musk will run it. In its proposed 2026 budget, the Trump administration moved to bankroll Musk's deeper ambitions, albeit with a fraction of the gargantuan sum required. Trump has proposed spending $1 billion to accelerate a mission to Mars and fund the design of spacesuits, landing systems, and other technologies that would make a voyage feasible. The money spent on human space exploration will be pried from NASA's other programs, even as the agency's total budget is set to shrink by nearly 25 percent and its workforce by one-third. To fulfill Musk's cosmic destiny, the administration is gutting NASA's broader scientific mission—the thing that NASA does best. (When asked about this shift, a NASA spokesperson described 'leading the way in human exploration of our solar system' as the agency's 'core mission,' and added that it is 'contributing to a competitive market that will increase commercial innovation.') Human spaceflight has floundered for decades, haunted by its inability to replicate its greatest achievements and whipsawed by changing presidential priorities. And the importance of astronauts to the enterprise of exploration, which was always questionable, has further diminished as the quality of robots has improved. At the same time, and without attracting the same kind of fanfare, NASA continues to display extraordinary acumen in science; its research initiatives are arguably the most profound ventures in all of government. They address the greatest mysteries in the universe: How did life begin? Are we alone in the cosmos? The government—so often viewed as a soul-sapping bureaucracy—has helped supply answers to these most spiritual of questions. In the late 1980s and early '90s, the Cosmic Background Explorer provided empirical support for the Big Bang theory. In 2020, after the OSIRIS-REx probe reached the asteroid Bennu, it collected a sample from a type of primordial projectile thought to have delivered life's building blocks to early Earth. Using the Hubble Space Telescope, NASA helped determine the age of the universe, affirmed the existence of dark energy, and extended humanity's gaze into distant galaxies and black holes. By capturing light from galaxies as they existed more than 13 billion years ago, one of NASA's telescopes has effectively peered into the universe's distant past. For all of Musk's mockery of NASA's supposed lack of ambition, the agency had already mounted a daring campaign to explore Mars—albeit with robots, not settlers. Over the decades, it sent a fleet of rovers (Spirit, Opportunity, Curiosity, Perseverance) to wander the plains of the red planet, drilling into rock and searching for ancient traces of water and life. NASA's lenses point inward as well as outward. Its satellites have documented the melting of the polar ice caps and the destruction of forests, alerting humanity to the planet's precarity. Unlike the technological spin-offs NASA often touts to Congress to justify its existence, these discoveries aren't fleeting breakthroughs in applied engineering. They are the path to humanity's self-knowledge—discoveries that private firms will never pursue, because their value can't be monetized. Put differently, Trump's budget is a cultural document. It reflects a shift in public values. Not so long ago, the astronomer Carl Sagan shaped how Americans thought about space. He did so through elegant books and his television series, Cosmos, which reached an estimated 500 million viewers worldwide. At its core, his project was to extol the virtues of the scientific method, which requires and promotes skepticism and humility—a way of thinking that could help society resist the lure of authoritarianism. He exuded wonder, a value he hoped to cultivate in Americans, and harkened back to the humanism of the Enlightenment, which was unfussy about the boundaries between philosophy and science. Every time I see Musk, I think of Sagan—because Musk is his opposite. He is a creature not of science but of engineering. He owes his fortune to the brute force of his rockets, and the awe they inspire. There's nothing humble about his manner. Rather than celebrate the fragile, improvised nature of human existence, Musk seeks to optimize or overwrite it—in the name of evolution, in pursuit of profit, in the vainglorious fulfillment of his adolescent fantasies. Where Sagan envisioned cooperation, Musk embodies the triumph of the individual. Where Sagan cautioned against the unintended consequences of technology, Musk charges headlong into the next disruption. That rush will eventually sweep away many of the old strictures confining him. For more than 50 years, the U.S. government has mulled missions to Mars and never mustered the political will to fund one. Elon Musk is doing just that. SpaceX is planning to launch its first uncrewed mission to Mars—neither funded nor formally sanctioned by NASA—in late 2026, timed for planetary alignment. Musk himself pegs the odds of hitting that 2026 window at 50–50. His history of theatrics and unmet deadlines suggests that those odds may be overstated. But this is more than bluster. He is building the most powerful rocket in human history, testing it at a relentless pace, and forcing it toward viability through sheer will. However speculative his timelines, they point to a plausible destination: the day when Musk escapes the gravitational pull of the U.S. government. The story of Elon Musk can be told using the genre of fiction that he reveres most. In an act of hubris, NASA gave life to a creature called SpaceX, believing it could help achieve humanity's loftiest ambitions. But, as in all great parables about technology, the creation eclipsed the creator. What was meant to be a partner became a force of domination. The master lost control. And so begins a new part of the tale: a dystopian chapter written in the language of liberation.
Business Insider
6 hours ago
- Business Insider
China says it wants the world to work together to govern AI. The US, not so much.
At this weekend's World Artificial Intelligence Conference in Shanghai, boxing robots thrilled the crowd. But the real heavyweight bout is between the US and China over the future of AI. The theme of the Shanghai conference, which was organized in part by the Chinese government and lasts until Monday, is "global solidarity in the AI era." In his keynote address, Chinese Premier Li Qiang called for a new global organization to coordinate responses to AI advancements. "Overall, global AI governance is still fragmented. Countries have great differences, particularly in terms of areas such as regulatory concepts, institutional rules," he said, speaking in Chinese. "We should strengthen coordination to form a global AI governance framework that has broad consensus as soon as possible." Li's pitch contrasted with comments made by US President Donald Trump earlier in the week. On Wednesday, the US president released his " AI Action Plan" and signed three executive orders. All of them, Trump said, were designed to free AI companies from regulatory burdens. "From this day forward, it'll be a policy of the United States to do whatever it takes to lead the world in artificial intelligence," he said before signing his executive orders. Trump's doctrine will likely benefit American AI companies. Many of them, like OpenAI, Meta, and Google DeepMind, submitted recommendations to the president and praised the new policies. However, it's an open question whether forgoing stricter regulations in the United States will benefit humanity. AI industry leaders have long warned about the threats AI could pose — everything from disinformation and economic inequality to total loss of all human control. In 2023, a group of prominent AI scientists, including OpenAI CEO Sam Altman, Google DeepMind CEO Demis Hassabis, and Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei, signed a one-sentence statement calling for AI regulation. "Mitigating the risk of extinction from AI should be a global priority alongside other societal-scale risks such as pandemics and nuclear war," it said. Altman said last year that AI could have a "negative impact way beyond the realm of one country." He said the tech should be regulated by an "international agency looking at the most powerful systems and ensuring reasonable safety testing." One way to do that is through an agreed-upon global framework similar to the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty, which is enforced by the United Nations and which all but four countries have signed. The UN tech chief, Doreen Bogdan-Martin, told the AFP on Saturday that the world urgently needed a global deal to regulate AI. "We have the EU approach. We have the Chinese approach. Now we're seeing the US approach. I think what's needed is for those approaches to dialogue," she said. The Trump administration, however, is likely to hinder any such international agreement. Beyond its own effort to loosen restrictions at home, it has largely dismissed other global collaborations in favor of its America First policy. At the Shanghai conference, Geoffrey Hinton, a computer scientist known as the Godfather of AI, said international cooperation on AI would be difficult. He said few countries agree on basics like how misinformation should be policed. He said there was one subject, however, on which the whole world seems aligned: Humans should not let AI supersede their control. "So on that particular issue, it should be easy to get international collaboration," he said at the conference, adding, however, that it "may be difficult with the current US administration." "But rational countries will collaborate on that," he said.
